


Time and Chance

by Selena



Category: 12th Century CE RPF, Devil's Brood - Sharon Kay Penman, Henry II Trilogy - Sharon Kay Penman, Historical RPF, The Lion in Winter (1968), When Christ and His Saints Slept - Sharon Kay Penman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-05 19:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4191780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selena/pseuds/Selena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five lives which Eleanor of Aquitaine never lived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fontevrault

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lsellers (Annariel)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annariel/gifts).



> **Disclaimer** : Eleanor's and Henry's initial exchange in chapter 4 is from Sharon Kay Penman's novel _When Christ and his Saints Slept_. Also, while I've read my share of biographies (from the classic Regine Pernoud biography of Eleanor onwards), I'd lie if I didn't admit to being influenced in my view of Eleanor, Henry and the rest by works of fiction: _The Lion in Winter_ and Penman's Angevin novels especially.  
>  **Thanks to** : My valiant Kathyh for beta-reading not one but five historical AUs.  
>  **Author's note** : My prompt for this story was: " _I've always be fascinated by Eleanor of Acquitaine. She seems such a strong character. One wonders what her life would have been like if she hadn't married the equally forceful character of Henry II, of even what it would have been like if their roles were reversed and she were the Queen of England and he were the Duke of Acquitaine."_
> 
> Now, there's no way Henry would have been the Duke of Aquitaine (though he was a Duke and she a Queen when they did originally meet - of Normandy and France, respectively). But it did make me think of not just one but several possible alternate scenarios for Eleanor, and rather than settle for one, I decided to write a "Five Things..." historical AU. Each departs from Eleanor's actual life at a different point; just one key circumstance changes in each case, and I explore the consequences of that. There are short footnotes in each chapter about how things actually went down.

The Dukes of Aquitaine always had a notoriously stormy relationship with the Church; when Eleanor's father supported the wrong Pope in a papal schism, it came to a head. Then her little brother fell ill, and her father, panicked at the prospect of losing his only male child and heir while his entire duchy was under threat of excommunication, swore that if his son recovered, he would become a penitent pilgrim, and his oldest daughter would take the veil and join a nunnery. 

Little Aigret recovered.

"God has spared one child," Eleanor's father the Duke said grimly, "so I must give him the other." 

That taught Eleanor about the perverseness of the divine will right then and there. She had never wished to become a nun. This was what happened to unwanted wives, like her grandmother, but she was a girl with a life still ahead of her, which she'd always imagined to involve feasts, hunts, music and beauty. She'd been her father's favourite, and he'd given her an education to match any son's. This was the first time something was asked of her, and spoiled as she was, she knew she would not refuse. Not when her father was genuinely afraid of damnation, and for her brother's death, should he break his bargain with God. 

She did persuade him to let her choose the cloister, though. It wasn't one in Aquitaine, but one in Anjou. Since Count Geoffrey of Anjou was her father's ally, this wasn't a problem, and her father obliged her, travelling with her to Fontevrault himself before going on his own pilgrimage. He had asked her about her choice, and she had told him placidly she'd heard much praise of the Abbey of Fontevrault, which had been founded only three decades earlier by the Archpriest Robert and the Prioress Hersende, and that if she was to be a nun, she wished to do so at a place famed for its learning so she could continue her education at least. 

"That's not why," her younger sister Petronilla said when they were alone. "Even I know they have both monks and nuns there, and their founders made it law that they'll always be ruled by a woman, not a man. You don't want learning, you want a chance to order people about one day. I know you." 

She would miss Petronilla dreadfully. 

The foundress Hersende had refused the title of "Abbess". So the current Abbess of Fontevrault was still the first one, a woman who'd been the foundress Hersende's right hand, and shared Eleanor's sister's name. She was Petronilla de Chemillé, and to Eleanor's young eyes, she seemed ancient. It was the prioress, Mahault, who did much of the day to day administrative work. "Once you have taken your vows," she told Eleanor, not unkindly, "you will be a young novice here, no more, no less. It can be difficult at first. Believe me, I know." 

She did. Mahault, Eleanor learned, was not only sister to Count Geoffrey of Anjou but the widow of that young prince who drowned on the famous White Ship, leaving King Henry I. of England without a male heir and only his daughter Maude to succeed him. Mahault could have been Queen of England, and yet she seemed content here, where nuns and monks worked to care for lepers, former whores and wives who had left their husbands for fear of their lives. 

The discipline of the monastic life was hard for Eleanor to accept. Eating gruel where she'd once been served pie made of fowl, rising at dawn to pray instead of sleeping in comfort, living with girls who weren't her servants or family but strangers and being chided if she argued with any of them: none of this was easy. But her endless curiosity always found new targets, through all the stories the people seeking refuge at Fontevrault brought with them. And what she had heard was true: in Fontevrault, the Abbess ruled over men and women alike, and the two founders had ensured it would never be an Abbot. 

"Nor will it ever be a nun raised at Fontevrault," one of the older nuns told Eleanor. "Blessed Robert and blessed Hersende wished it to be always a widow, someone who'd had experience in the world first, and would know how to deal with it without longing for it. As Hersende herself was."

She might as well have said: _it will never be you_. Well, Eleanor thought, we shall see about that. If she was to stay here for the rest of her life, it would certainly be a waste of the mind God had given her not to use it.  


There was a lot about Fontevrault she admired, and she did believe the work its community was doing was important. But even after taking her vows, it wasn't easy to encounter the occasional highborn female guest, dressed in fine robes, and not resent the rough cloth scratching her skin a little; to listen in the prescribed silence to the recitation of St. Benedict's rules and not long for it to be music and song by a troubadour instead. Still, the hardest vow to keep was that of obedience: doing as she was told. 

She wasn't allowed messages from her family for the first two years, until she'd taken permanent vows, and then she found out that her father had died while her little sister Petronilla had been married to the young King of France, Louis, while her uncle was regent in Aquitaine until Aigret came of age. It was unworthy, yet she couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if Aigret had died back then. Would she be Duchess of Aquitaine now? Or Queen of France? Both? 

No matter. She had to do best with what she'd been given. Her big chance came when she was a little past twenty years of age, and the Church was in uproar. The feud between Bernard of Clairvaux and Peter Abelard had escalated to the point where Bernard had accused Abelard of arrogance of the mind and heresy, and asked for the public condemnation of all his works. Abelard was planning to defend his theories in a public disputation at Sens, and had written to anyone he regarded as a friend and follower in order to ask them to come to Sens in his support. Since Bernard of Clairvaux was considered to be a living saint while Abelard, though a brilliant scholar, was indeed famous for his arrogance, and even more famous for the notorious scandal that had ended with him castrated, many of the younger nuns were surprised to learn that the Abbess had decided to go to Sens, despite her age. 

"Why would she side with Abelard?" one of the novices asked, and Eleanor was glad, since she wanted to know the same thing, but had learned by now not to show it so openly. 

"There is a... connection," an older nun said, but could not be drawn into explaining more. Eleanor decided she would find out sooner or later, but the more important issue was to use this opportunity. 

"Our Mother Abbess is going to need someone to aid her on the journey," she said to Prioress Mahault after having asked for an audience. "You can spare me. I can be far more useful to her on the way than I could be here."  


"This is true for any number of our younger nuns," Mahault replied quietly. 

"Yes, Mother. But," Eleanor drew a quick breath, for now she had to gamble, "none of the others is the sister of the Queen of France. Who will be there, at Sens, together with her husband the King."

The corners of Mahault's mouth quirked. "Humility is still a stranger to you, Sister. Mother Abbess is respected and venerated everywhere in France for this Abbey she helped create. Do you seriously believe this will weigh less at Sens than your shared blood with a young Queen whom you haven't seen in years?"

"No, Mother. But I think that it might not solely be Peter Abelard who is in danger at Sens. Forgive me, Mother, but I listen to the stories told by people who come here, and they say Abbot Bernard has declared that communities such as ours, women and men led by a woman, are against the natural order. He considers women worthy only of serving, does he not? And if he wins the dispute, he might use the opportunity to have this view of his confirmed by all the bishops and cardinals present as well. If that should be the case, it could be important to have the King's ear, so our community here can continue just as we are."

Mahault regarded her silently. Eleanor felt the sweat running down on her back, but she was reasonably sure her face remained composed. She did not speak again, but remained silent as well, and did not look away. Mahault's face appeared ageless, framed by her nun's wimple, and yet somewhere still must be the woman who'd seen the machinations of power at a royal court first hand and knew how important influence was.

"You care about this community, do you, Sister?"

"Yes," Eleanor said, and it wasn't a lie. She did care. But she also wanted a chance to prove what she could do. 

"Very well," Mahault said at least. "You'll go with Mother Abbess to Sens. But remember, you'll be there to serve her and Fontevrault. Not to glory in your own cleverness." 

The venerable Abbess Petronilla turned out to be as mentally alert as ever, but fragile enough to need a litter for her journey to Sens, as opposed to travelling on a donkey, which, as she told Eleanor, she used to do in her younger years. The men carrying her litter were lay monks, and had dispensation to use force should the Abbess and Eleanor be attacked by brigands, which thankfully didn't happen. But they could only travel a few hours a day because of the Abbess' state. It was spring, a lovely May; the Abbess still felt so cold that Eleanor had to rub her hands and feet more than once to get the blood flowing. It also got the Abbess talking about the old days, about blessed Robert and Hersende, and that was how Eleanor found out what the "connection" was. 

"Blessed Hersende, ah, there was a woman. She did not regret once that she'd given up her worldly state to follow Robert and found our monastery. Well, for her own sake, she did not regret. There was...she had a daughter, you see. Such a remarkable girl, wise beyond her years, and a scholar, too, as much as any man was. I confess I was jealous of her, for I, too, saw Hersende as my mother. Her daughter was raised by an uncle in Paris, and he had her taught by the most famous, the most brilliant scholar of them all."

By now, Eleanor had a suspicion as to where this was leading, and she was young enough to hold her breath. 

"I had never met Heloise before the scandal," the Abbess murmured. "And when it happened, I was ashamed of my unworthy thoughts again. Mark this, daughter, for envy is one of the mortal sins, and you can think of yourself as a good Christian and still be afflicted by it. Hersende's daughter might be the most learned woman of France, I thought, but she'd still been seduced by Abelard as if she'd been one of the unfortunate tavern girls seeking refuge with us. I was the better daughter, I thought. And this is why I must now be at Sens. To atone for my joy at another's pain. She's an abbess now, too, Heloise, did you know that? They were married then, but after her uncle castrated Abelard, Abelard took holy vows, and asked that she should as well. And she did. That was when I met her. I felt I owed it to Hersende to be there, or so I told myself, but when I saw her, I knew I had come to triumph yet again. I was the Pharisee, not the Good Samaritan. I congratulated her for following in her mother's footsteps at last, and she looked at me and said: 'I'd rather be Abelard's whore than the greatest Abbess in Christendom.' She looked at me, and I saw myself, petty, envious, and that memory will not vanish." 

"Will she be there, at Sens?" Eleanor asked, trying not to sound too eager, despite how much the story reminded her of something out of a minstrel's song. She'd heard about Heloise before. Everyone had. The younger novices sometimes whispered amongst themselves about what they would do if ever a monk were to be an Abelard. To her disappointment, the Abbess shook her head. 

"She will not be. She knows Abelard's existence might be at stake, and if she is there, Bernard will not even need to remind everyone of the past, and make them believe the past is also the present." 

Despite the drawn out journey, they arrived in time at Sens. Due to the town being packed with all the visitors attending the Council, the Abbess and Eleanor shared quarters with the Countess of Champagne's ladies. Eleanor hadn't had the chance to identify herself to anyone as the Queen's sister yet; attending the evening mass, open to everyone, clergy , nobility and commoners alike, was more important, for Bernard of Clairvaux himself would preach, and it was this mass that was regarded as the beginning of the Council. 

Bernard, it turned out, wasn't coy about what he wanted. He asked everyone present to pray for the soul of Peter Abelard, which was in dire peril. "Does he not encourage doubt? '"By doubting we come to examine, and by examining we reach the truth', these are his words! He puts reason above faith. He claims that the intention, not the act itself, is what makes a deed good or bad! This is heresy. This is evil!" 

And thus it went on for another hour, which left most of the attendants drenched in sweat and fear. It made Eleanor very curious to read Abelard's works, but she was aware this had not been the intended effect. After mass, there was a festive banquet for the bishops and the abbots of the great abbeys who were in attendance. The Abbess had not planned to go, but after Bernard's sermon, she declared she had to. 

It was the first banquet Eleanor took part in since she'd left Aquitaine. She stood behind the Abbess and cut her fish for her, for the Abbess did not possess many of her teeth anymore. Neither the King nor the Queen were present, so she could focus on everyone else. The Abbess was talking to the Abbot of Poitiers, Berengar, who as it turned out was on Abelard's side and was most distressed. 

"He will not, surely?" was what Eleanor heard the Abbess asking, but couldn't hear Berengar's reply, because that was when Bernard of Clairvaux entered the room. He did not bother to take a place at the table. Instead, he used his preacher's voice for one more statement. As everyone present surely now had been convinced of Abelard's heresy", he thundered, "I ask you, my lord bishops, to condemn his works. Do not give him the chance to indulge his Luciferian pride with idle chatter. Condemn his works _now_!"

There were some mutterings from Berengar and other clerics, but the majority nodded. Only the Abbess rose. 

"Surely, he should be allowed to defend what he has written?" she said, her own voice old and exhausted. "Was not this the reason why we were called here to this Council? To hear you, my lord Abbot, and Peter Abelard dispute, so we can all learn how to understand and love Christ all the better for giving us such wise men to teach us?"

It was defense and flattery in one, and very well done, thought Eleanor, who admired her Abbess for her courage. To her surprise, Bernard didn't look angry. Nor did he agree. He simply said, in an utterly dismissive tone, quoting St. Paul: "Mulier taceat in ecclesia."

_May the woman be silent in church._

It was as if the Abbess had never spoken. Soon after, all the bishops present decided to condemn Peter Abelard's work as heretical. But they had taken note of the Abbess. "You should not have spoken in favour of an heretic," one of them told her ominously before asking for the plate with waterfowl. 

By now, Eleanor was burning in indignation, but if nothing else, the years as a nun had taught her not to burst out with what she thought immediately. After she had made sure the Abbess was tucked in with one of the Countess of Champagne's ladies, she asked to see the Countess herself, knowing that a simple nun claiming to be the Queen's sister would be turned away by the royal guards, but a nun in the company of an important noblewoman would not be. 

Convincing the Countess of her identity turned out to be not so hard. "If you are the Queen's sister, she'll be grateful," the woman said mischievously, "and if you aren't, it'll give us topic for gossip to watch her react. She's such a lively person." 

"She always was," Eleanor said thankfully. 

Petronilla had grown into a beautiful young woman, if a very bored one. The King was nowhere near the quarters given to her. "He's more monk than King," Petronilla sighed, "and would rather spend the night before the Council in prayer." She'd heard about what had happened at the banquet, but did not care one way or the other. "Why does it matter?" she sighed. "Someone's books are always banned."

 _This could have been me_ , Eleanor thought, staring at her, and for the first time, the thought came free of envy. Right here and now, she would not have wanted to be the idle young woman in front of her for the world. 

"It matters because Bernard is not the Pope, yet usurps such authority that he'll soon be able to condemn you for listening to the wrong song, or any song at all," she said, choosing an argument that she thought her sister, who was far from stupid, would understand. "It matters because he disapproves of Fontevrault, and would rather have us nuns serving the monks, or not existing at all. There have been nunneries dissolved because mighty abbots wished it so, you know they have."

"Ah, now we're getting to it," Petronilla exclaimed, the old delight when she thought she'd found Eleanor out dancing in her eyes. "Do not fret, sister. If Fontevrault gets dissolved, you'll always have a place at my side. I promise. As for your vows, with Louis such a good Christian, he should be able to get some bishop to free you from them. I doubt our brother Aigret will die as a result. That was our father's bargain, and he is dead, God rest his soul."

"It was my bargain as well," Eleanor said, and saying it, she truly accepted it for the first time. "And I don't want to leave Fontevrault, Petra. I want it safe, once and for all." 

Surprise, consternation and then a smile mingled on Petronilla's face. "And to rule it, once day," she replied. "Don't tell me you've changed _that_ much." 

__"One day," Eleanor confirmed, and returned Petronilla's smile, for it was true. "So I need to make sure neither Bernard nor another holy man interferes with it. If you need to justify it to your husband, ask him this: can he be sure that the next Pope won't regard Bernard of Clairvaux as a heretic as well? Saints and heretics are so difficult to keep apart sometimes. It would be best if the crown of France were being seen to support Bernard not quite so unquestioningly, but supports other abbots - and abbesses - as well."_ _

__"I have missed you," Petronilla sighed._ _

__Two of Peter Abelard's books and fourteen of his thesis were condemned as heretical by the Council of Sens. But the Abbey of Fontevrault got its statute confirmed, in every detail save one: the exclusion of nuns who were raised at Fontevrault from being elected as Abbess._ _

__"I think," the Abbess said wearily, "that we've done all here we could. Now let's go home, my child."_ _

__"I'm looking forward to it," Eleanor said, and she truly did._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Point of Departure from history: the survival of Eleanor's younger brother, Aigret. In reality, he died, which made Eleanor the heiress of Aquitaine and arguably the richest bride on the continent. Fontevrault is where she spent her last years; she is buried there, as are Henry II., Richard I. and John's wife, Isabelle.


	2. England

When her mother-in-law Matilda lay dying at Hedingham Castle, she grabbed Eleanor's hand, pulled her closer and whispered: "Leave. Leave now. You must go St. Edmund's Abbey."

"My lady, a messenger has already been sent to the King", Eleanor protested. 

"That is not why. Someone..." Matilda struggled, not against illness but against a life long habit of not ever voicing any criticism, direct or indirect, directed at her much beloved husband, King Stephen. "Someone needs to ensure that Eustace will be crowned _now_. Or else he will never be King, you will not be Queen, and all the blood shed during these last twenty years will be so that Maude's son takes the throne after all." 

Eleanor understood. She'd been raised by the tiny woman who held her hand, Stephen's queen, whom men and women underestimated at their peril. It had been Matilda of Boulogne who'd changed Stephen's mind, all those years ago, when he'd negotiated a marriage for their oldest son Eustace. Stephen had wanted the French King's daughter for their boy. But Matilda had argued that while a French princess would bring honour, she would not bring wealth and troops to their cause, both of which were direly needed in the never ending war Stephen fought against his cousin Maude, his rival claimant for the English throne. The truth was that the King of France held little actual power, given that his richest provinces were firmly in the hands of nobles who cared little for his commands. The Duke of Aquitaine, by contrast, ruled over the wealthiest province of the realm, generally ignored his nominal liege lord in Paris and clashed just often enough with the Church to regard an alliance with the King of England as useful. He'd made the alliance by sending his oldest daughter to Stephen and Matilda to raise as the bride of their oldest son. And then the Duke's only son had died, making Eleanor the heiress of Aquitaine and her young husband the richest groom in two realms. 

It should have given King Stephen the final victory over his cousin Maude. It very nearly did. But in recent years, all those advantages had been trickling away. Matilda, ever loyal, had blamed the stubborness of Maude, and ill fortune, but the more Eleanor grew up, the more she came to the conclusion that the true blame lay somewhere closer to home. 

It wasn't that she didn't love her father-in-law. He was very easy to love; a kind man, cheerful in manner, ready to spend time with his children and indeed play with them, disregarding his dignity, something she did not recall her father to have been. And she certainly loved Matilda, whose plain looks and devotion to King Stephen and her children had led many to dismiss her as insignificant at first sight, especially by comparison to the imperious Maude. Until Matilda confounded them all by successfully besieging Dover Castle on her own, negotiating a treaty with the King of Scotland who used to be Maude's partisan, and raising an entire army to free her husband after Stephen had been captured by Maude's forces. It had been Matilda who had saved her husband and her husband's kingship, Matilda who'd proved to the girl Eleanor that a woman could command men and win.  


But now Matilda was dying. And a future without Matilda looked very dark indeed. With Stephen's virtues as a father and husband had always come flaws as a ruler, flaws that Eleanor, out of loyalty to her parents-in-law, had until now not named out loud but had been increasingly aware of. Stephen could be influenced too easily by whoever had his ear at the moment. His word, easily given, was just as easily broken. His barons had stopped feeling threatened by his authority a long time ago and did mostly as they pleased; their main reason for not switching sides and going over to Maude was that Maude would never have given them a tenth of the power they wielded under Stephen. If they rebelled against him, they didn't get punished; they got bribed with yet more privileges into returning to the fold. 

The effect all this had had on Eleanor's husband, Stephen's son Eustace, had been disastrous. Growing up with Eustace had meant Eleanor knew him inside out, so she had been treated to rants about how he'd make men respect him the way they didn't his father on a regular basis. Unfortunately, his idea of how to do that was to compete with the unruly barons in plundering easy targets, towns and abbeys that weren't defended by a superior army. This made even genuine followers of Stephen take another look at Maude's son, Henry Fitz Empress, who was younger than Eustace but already was gaining a good reputation as a capable commander who had his troops in hand. The reason why King Stephen was at St. Edmund's Abbey right now was to negotiate with the Archbishop of Canterbury. He wanted to have Eustace crowned as King within his own lifetime, to ensure the succession, but the Archbishop so far had refused, which had surprised nobody except for Eustace and Stephen.

Eleanor didn't love Eustace. At best, she had a weary tolerance for him; there were some childhood memories binding them together, of the terrible time when King Stephen had been captured and they'd been held hostage in the Tower. But he'd grown into a man with none of his parents' virtues, and flaws to outdo his father's. He never seemed to think of the consequences of his action. If she'd been anyone but his wife, she wouldn't have wanted him on the throne, either, especially after the mess he'd made of holding her heritage, Aquitaine, which was up in rebellion against him right now. But she _was_ his wife, and since she was also now the mother of his infant son there was no chance of getting the marriage annulled, either. Given all of this, the thought of not becoming Queen and the end of all this was indeed appalling. If Eustace didn't succeed Stephen, he'd be driven into exile by Maude and Henry, probably reduced to holding the territories he'd inherit from his mother, and the thought of being stuck in Boulogne with a sulking Eustace for the rest of her life was a nightmare. 

"You must go to St. Edmund's Abbey", Matilda repeated, and Eleanor, somewhere between guilt and determination, nodded. 

"I will," she promised. 

Matilda sighed, and let go of her hand. Her illness had come quite suddenly, and at first she'd forbidden anyone to send word to the King, believing it to be but a minor inconvenience. It was like Matilda to worry about everyone else, the King, Eustace, the people of the realm, thought Eleanor, painfully aware that her own horror at the prospect of Eustace losing the succession was selfish in nature. She wanted to become Queen. She wanted her own chance at ruling, and she was fairly confident she could do it, having learned from Matilda what to do and from Stephen what to avoid. Getting Eustace to listen to her would be the constant challenge, but she believed she could do this, too. She was six years older than he was, and she'd always dominated him during their youth, which regrettably had even contributed to his need to prove himself in battle as soon as he was able to. Still, getting crowned might satisfy that need as well, and after that, she'd handle him, rule through him. If only she'd get the chance. 

One of Matilda's daughters, Mary, was with them, so she wouldn't leave Matilda alone until Stephen arrived. It did hurt to leave. Matilda was the only mother she could truly remember, and given the state she was in, Eleanor would never see her again. On the other hand, if she didn't leave, Matilda might die in torment, fretting about the future. That was what Eleanor told herself to feel less selfish about following her mother-in-law's request, and half of her believed it. 

On the way to St. Edmund's, she crossed paths with a distraught King Stephen rushing to his wife's side, who heard her explanation without much sign of understanding it, but did authorize her to carry on the negotiations with the Archbishop's representatives. Eustace, who was with his father, protested that it should be him, but did so half heartedly. For all his faults, he did love his mother and wanted to be with her in so dark an hour.  
At Bury St. Edmund's, the hasty departure of the King had left everything in chaos. The Abbot barely disguised his relief when Eleanor announced the negotiations would continue. Decades of war between Stephen and Maude had afflicted the country badly enough; additional war between King and Church would only make things worse, and that was where they were heading, since Stephen had taken some clerics hostage in order to force the Archbishop to crown Eustace. After introducing Eleanor to the Archbishop's representative, one Thomas Becket, the Abbot slumped on his chair and exhaled as if a heavy burden had been taken from him.

Becket was only a few years older than she was, three or four at most, young for such a trusted position, but he'd grown up in the Archbishop's household, he informed her, had studied canon law in Bologna and had carried out several missions to Rome. His manner was smooth and polite; she was instantly on her guard. 

"The Queen has my prayers, and those of the Archbishop," he assured her. 

"How very kind. Of course, we're in a Benedictine monastery here, and St. Benedict recommended actions as well as prayers to lead a life truly pleasing to God. The Queen's soul would certainly be filled with joy if the Archbishop's actions were to assure her that her life's quest to see the succession of England secured was not in vain."

"Alas, a secure succession does not have to involve the lord Eustace," Becket said mildly. "There are...other possibilities. Who aren't currently holding men of god to ransom."

She had already determined she'd give him the hostages, but she would make him work for it.

"Not currently," Eleanor parried. "But then, Henry Fitz Empress needs the Archbishop's favour, and since he's not King of England, he can promise a lot without having to deliver. A future in which he succeeds to the throne in my lord husband's place would be one in which he has no more rivals to fear, and do you truly believe a son of the proudest woman in Christendom would be willing to grant even half as much power to the church as his grace King Stephen has done? Wasn't the first thing the Lady Maude did once King Stephen had been captured to argue with the Archbishop about the appointment of bishops?" 

Something flickered in Becket's gaze, and Eleanor knew she had scored a point. The Church had benefited from Stephen's vulnerability, no less than the barons had done, and Becket had to know that no strong monarch would stand for that kind of exploitation. On her way to St. Edmund's, she'd reviewed her disadvantages again and again: Eustace had created a bad reputation for himself, whereas Henry Fitz Empress was gaining a good one, and he didn't suffer from his mother's problem. Both Church and barons had objected to Maude not so much for her high-handedness but because she was a woman, and for a woman to rule in her own right was regarded as unnatural. That was why Stephen had become King in the first place all those years ago, despite being only the old King's nephew, whereas Maude had been his daughter. But young Henry was a male heir, and as opposed to Eustace not one who already had started dozens of feuds. There was no way she could make Becket, and through him the Archbishop, believe that Eustace was the better man.

But she could make them believe that they'd benefit more from a King who needed them due to his weaknesses than they would from one who was strong enough to dominate them once power was his. Strong enough to begrudge the Church every concession Stephen had made, and take it back. 

"His grace the King," said Eleanor, pressing her advantage, "will soon be a grieving widower. To see his son crowned within his lifetime would console him immensely, and he would thank God and God's servants for this in a fitting way. As for my lord husband, he would regard the Church doubly as his mother. As all good Christians should."

Her father and grandfather had both been excommunicated at times; the Dukes of Aquitaine were famously irreverent in their attitude towards God's servants, and while Eleanor had been raised by the truly devout Matilda, she'd never entirely lost the jaundiced view her family had on ambitious clerics. But she could dissemble with the best of them. 

"My lady," Becket said, face neutral, "forgive me, but the lord Eustace so far has given the Archbishop no reason to believe he would keep to that commendable attitude once he's crowned. Of course my lord Archbishop would be only too happy to assist the King's grace in his grief. With prayers and wise counsel, as a man of god should. But to anoint a King is to perform a sacrament which cannot be undone. It would seem wiser to let God decide whether Lord Eustace or Henry Fitz Empress is God's chosen once the King's Grace has left us. Then, only a worthy man will become the Lord's Anointed."

Apparently Becket was just as good at dissembling. Eleanor allowed one of her eyebrows to raise.

"You have a remarkable faith in trial by combat," she commented. "Given how the luck of the battlefield has favoured sometimes the Lady Maude and sometimes the King's Grace during my life time. I suppose it truly takes a scholar who studied at Bologna to decipher God's will from this."

The corners of his mouth quirked. So he did have a sense of humor. 

"I have to admit my own conclusions are...not yet drawn, my lady."

"And the Archbishop's?"

"My lord Archbishop is currently too distressed over the uncertain fate of the men of god whom the King has offered some...unasked for hospitality to think of much else."

"Well," she said, "then it is fortunate indeed that I can assure you the men in question will soon be at leisure to flock to the Archbishop's side. Or to perform the duties to which God has called them, as the case may be."

Becket sighed. "As good as this is to hear, my lady, I must tell you that we would like more than the King's promise through your kind self for this, for alas, even after giving his word the King has sometimes... reconsidered. And the lord Eustace's word would be not be enough, either, for..."

She steeled herself. If she wasn't convincing now, everything she was trying to accomplish would fail. She thought of Matilda at Dover, accomplishing a siege where her husband had failed. 

"You'll have _my_ word," Eleanor said softly, for she'd learned from Matilda that this carried more power than loud pronouncements. "My word on the release of these men, and my word that my lord husband will, after his coronation, affirm the Church's right to appoint bishops and judge clerics. After his coronation, the date of which you and I will agree upon before we leave this place. For if this does not happen, you'll have my word as well. Without his mother, and without our mother the Church at his side, my lord husband in his distress will be a storm leaving devastation behind."

"A threat, my lady?" Becket asked, just as softly. 

"A statement of truth. The people have been saying these last years that Christ and his Saints must surely sleep, for all the grief that has come to this realm. You and I can put an end to this, right here and now. We can create a peaceful succession, one king following another, both guided by the Church, a realm finally coming to peace. Or you can fail Church and realm alike and invite more years of bloodshed and no law. Which is it to be?"  


At last, he had abandoned his pretence of placid neutrality. His eyes were narrowed. She could see the muscles at his throat moving as he swallowed. His fingers were pressed into the lord Abbot's table across which they sat. It then came to Eleanor that while his position as the Archbishop's right hand at a relatively young age spoke of ambition and the ability to outstrip his rivals, the way her last words had affected him could indicate that he actually did care what became of the realm and its people. She decided to gamble on it. 

"What does God want of you, Thomas Becket? To create peace or to prolong strife?"

He pressed his lips together. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled, a smile rueful and self mocking at the same time. 

"Well, if you put it like that, my lady." 

She had him. They arranged a coronation date for Eustace, with the Archbishop starting preparations as soon as the released clerics arrived at Canterbury. She also conceded several revenues from her own territory of Aquitaine to the Archbishop once the coronation had actually taken place, not before. 

The treaty was still being written when word arrived from Hedingham Castle. Eleanor had sent a messenger immediately with the hope Matilda would be told in time and thus would be able to die knowing the future was as assured as it could be, but the messenger said the Queen had fallen into a delirium soon after Eleanor's departure from which she had not emerged, though she had died shriven and in her husband's arms. Hearing this, Eleanor withdrew in the Abbot's bedroom where no one could see her and cried for a very long time. 

Then she emerged to sign the order to prepare Winchester for her husband's coronation. 

One year later, Eustace died very suddenly, choking to death on a mouthful of lamprey-eel pie. At this point, Stephen, who'd been heartbroken following Matilda's death and taken the cross, was far away, in the Holy Land. And thus it fell to the young Queen of England to negotiate with Henry Fitz Empress, Duke of Normandy, who'd never given up his claim to the English throne. 

"You could, of course, continue the war and fight against him in your son's name," Thomas Becket said to Eleanor while bringing her the Archbishop's condolences. "But is this truly what God wants of you, my lady? To prolong strife? Or does he want you to create peace?" 

She didn't think Becket meant it as a taunt. He certainly meant it to be a challenge, though. 

"I won't deprive my son of his inheritance," she said, stalling, while pondering the possibilities. Her little son was named William after her father and grandfather and would have the duchy of Aquitaine for certain, but it would be a shame to have been Queen only for so short a time, not nearly enough to make a difference and ensure William a throne. 

On the other hand, Henry Fitz Empress was still unmarried. There had been talk about him and the French King's sister, the one who originally was to have been Eustace's bride, but it had come to nothing. 

"You've met him," Eleanor said to Becket. "What kind of man is he, beyond all the rumours?"

Becket gave her an enigmatic look. "My lady, he's just like you." 

"God help us then," Eleanor said. "For I am going to propose marriage to him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Point of departure: Eleanor, not Constance of France, is married to Stephen's son Eustace as a child. Constance did not make many waves in history, and we don't know much about her. Eustace comes across as a nasty piece of work in all chronicles, but then, the chroniclers were monks, and he did sack several abbeys. His death by lamprey-eel - the same way Henry I. died, incidentally - wasn't mourned by anyone but his father, who had indeed tried to get Eustace crowned within his own life time.


	3. Outremer

The Turkish ambush near Laodicea had managed to separate the French army. It also managed to kill near half of its men. The worst, though, became apparent once the dust had settled and the Turks had gone. The dead included Louis. Eleanor had lost her husband, France its King, and the Crusade one of its two leaders, with the other, the German King Konrad, already so ill that he was currently getting nursed at Constantinople, nowhere near the Holy Land. 

Eleanor had no idea what she felt. She had married Louis when she was fifteen and he was sixteen, with her father just dead and his father dying. They'd grown into adulthood together, and he had adored her from the start. But he also always felt guilty for loving her. Louis had been a second son, meant for the Church, had been raised as a monk until his older brother had suffered a lethal accident, and he had never reconciled himself entirely to living a worldly life. Eleanor had struggled against the monks who guided him and regarded her as Eve incarnated, first Abbot Suger, then Bernard of Clairvaux, regarded by many as a living saint. Louis had felt the need to punish himself every time they shared a bed, which wasn't often, and since their only child was a daughter, not a son, several of his advisors had begun to murmur that their marriage might not be God's will after all. 

When she'd taken the cross with him, it had been to prove herself as queen as much as for any other reason. Louis, of course, had been delighted. At last, serving God was something he could share with his wife. And now he was dead, killed by a Turkish arrow in a battle he'd lost, with no son to succeed him. 

"This is God's judgment, my lady," said Geoffrey de Rancon, one of her Aquitaine vassals. "We must return to Constantinople, and from there to France, and see my lord Robert crowned."

Robert was Louis' younger brother, who'd taken the cross as well. He at least was alive. 

"God's judgment indeed," said Thierry Galeran darkly. He was a Templar who'd become Louis' confidant on their journey, and he made no secret of the fact he hated her. "If we didn't have women with us, against all that is right and proper, the army would never been overwhelmed by the Turks this way."

"Now look here..." began Rancon, and Eleanor realized she had an open quarrel between the Northern French, Louis' people, and her own Gascons at hand if she didn't do something, and quickly. Robert wouldn't; he was still staring at Louis' corpse, ignoring the raised voices. 

"My lords," she interrupted her vassal and the Templar, "we have all taken an oath, the King included. It was his desire to rescue the fallen city of Edessa, and then to see holy Jerusalem. Which we have all sworn to do. If we turn back now, he will have died in vain, and we would all be oathbreakers."

"But..." Rancon said, and fell silent. For the first time since she'd known him, Thierry Galeran looked surprised. In truth, Eleanor could have cared less about the sanctity of oaths, and she could live without ever having seen Jerusalem. But if Edessa fell, Antioch might be next, and Antioch was ruled by her dear kinsman, Raymond, her grandfather's youngest son, an uncle only seven years older than herself, who'd grown up with her. Right now, with her marriage to Louis ended so abruptly and her future uncertain, the need to reunite with one of the few family members she had left was overwhelming. 

Besides, she knew many would think as Thierry did, even if they weren't honest enough to say it out loud. They'd claim she and her women had slowed the army down, had contributed to her husband's death. That she had doomed the crusade after already failing as queen. 

If there was one thing Eleanor well and truly hated, it was failure. 

"We will proceed," she declared with confidence born out of desperation. "Go to Antioch. My uncle will receive us graciously, and together, we _will_ save Edessa." 

Belatedly, her brother-in-law had woken up to the realisation that an important discussion was taking place, and one which concerned him. 

"But I have responsibilities!" he protested. "I must be crowned! I am King now." 

"So you are, brother," Eleanor said smoothly. "But surely Abbot Suger is as able a regent of France now as he was yesterday, when my lord husband was still alive. Surely your responsibilities are the same as Louis carried. Or do you want to say that my dear husband did not act responsibly when taking up the cross? As, indeed, did you. As did we all." 

"Of course not, sister," Robert replied hastily. She knelt in front of him then, paying homage to him as the new king, her liege lord, and the surviving nobles of the French army followed suit. Robert wasn't a bad man; rarely among royal families, he lacked ambition, had been content as Count of Dreux, and shared Louis' faith, if not in quite as strict a way. Eleanor doubted Robert wore a hair shirt or felt the need to do penance every time he slept with his wife. No, there had been far worse Kings than Robert would be, but the problem was that he'd never been a leader, either, and right now, demoralized by the defeat at the hand of the Turks and with Louis dead, the army needed one. They needed their courage back, or they'd never even reach Antioch, let alone Edessa or Jerusalem.

She wiped the dust from her lips. 

"We will take up our banners again," she ordered, loud enough for her words to carry around the battlefield. "There is no shame in a defeat. Our Lord fell into the dust thus, his enemies upon him, on his way to Golgotha. There is only shame in staying defeated, for he did not. He rose on the third day to free us all. So let's take up our banners again, and follow him."

What was left of the army listened, and obeyed. So did her women, some of whom already had seen themselves abducted into a harem. Others were grieving for their husbands, and whispered that the Queen was unnatural, or had never loved the King at all. Hadn't she once been overheard to say to her sister that she had married a monk? But they didn't dare to disobey her. After all, Count Robert, who was now King Robert, seemed to think it wise to do what she said.

Eleanor thought about her and Louis' daughter Marie while they marched on. Marie would have no memory of Louis, none at all. She would be regarded as a lesser marriage prize now that she was a King's niece, not a King's daughter anymore, but she'd still be a prize, and treated as one; all too often, ambitious nobles took the women to acquire the property they wanted and had a biddable priest at hand to bless the union. Marie being a child would only make it easier. 

For now, she'd have to believe Suger would keep Marie safe and not yet use her as a bargaining chip. As long as he believed her to be the daughter of his pupil and sovereign, he would. Later - later she had to make sure it was still in his interest to do his best for Marie. And she could only do that from a position of power. Eleanor was under no illusions. As soon as she was on French soil again, she herself would be an eagerly sought prize, considered ripe for the taking. Who wouldn't want to marry the Duchy of Aquitaine? 

Marie had inherited Louis' eyes, trusting, blue. Very unlike her own, which were a mixture of hazel and green, depending on the light, changeable. As she herself was, Louis used to say in the few times he tried to be gallant the way her troubadours were. He hadn't been very good at it. 

It came to her then; the grief for the boy who'd been her friend, even if he'd been horrible at being her lover, sharing comfort with her in the new world without fathers as they awoke King and Queen of France. She let the Syrian wind dry the tears on her cheeks, and marched on, for the Turks had taken all the horses. 

Raymond was both delighted to see her and horrified at the news she brought. He'd counted at French support, he said frankly, especially since the Germans weren't coming yet and wouldn't for a while. He'd aged, had her uncle Raymond, but he was still dashing, charming and bold; that was the way he'd won Antioch, after all. 

"I couldn't retake Edessa alone," he said frankly. "But with allies, I could."

"You think much of yourself, my lord," Thierry Galeran said, glowering. "Frankly, I think in our state we should leave Edessa alone and attack Damascus, which is ruled by the cursed Mohammedans as well, and not yet prepared for war." 

"Because Damascus has been neutral so far," Raymond retorted. "But if we attack it, Damascus will side with Nur-ed-Din, and then I will have two threats at my doorstep instead of one. Besides, was not the fall of Edessa the reason for this second Crusade?" 

Robert harrumphed. "Well, yes, but if you yourself say you need allies to retake Edessa... and given our reduced army's size..."

"What about the Kingdom of Jerusalem?" Eleanor asked suddenly. "Surely it is just as important for them that Edessa is retaken as it is for you, Raymond?"

She saw the French react to her use of "Raymond" instead of "Uncle", but she did not care. He'd always been too young for her to call him uncle, and she wasn't about to start now. 

"Yes," Raymond said, "but the Kingdom of Jerusalem is divided. King Baldwin is young and eager to rule alone, while his mother Melisande, who has been ruling for him and is Queen of Jerusalem in her own right, does not wish to abandon power."

"Women", Thierry Galeran said scornfully. 

"Then it seems to me", Eleanor stated, ignoring him, "that the most sensible thing would be for me to go to Jerusalem and make an alliance with Queen Melisande while our army recovers here." 

The improvised war council looked in varying degrees surprised and aghast, except for Raymond, who said in the _langue d'oc_ , the language of South that she'd missed so much in her years among the northerners in Paris: "Are you sure, Eleanor? She is a formidable woman, and not above destroying those who displease her." 

"We have that in common, then," Eleanor said with more bravado than she actually felt. The secret of being a leader, she was fast discovering, wasn't to be free of fear and doubts, it was not to show everyone else that you were full of them. 

Thierry Galeran insisted on coming with her. "Well, you couldn't ask for a better protector than a Knight Templar," Robert said cheerfully, while Eleanor privately thought Galeran either didn't trust her to do what she promised or that he wanted to use the opportunity to get rid of her entirely. But it was true, he was an accomplished fighter, a representative of the most powerful of all orders in the Holy Land, and to voice her own distrust would have meant creating disunity at a time when unity was of the utmost importance. She was petty enough to ask Raymond to kill Thierry Galeran if he should return without her, though. 

"Do you fear he might?" Raymond asked seriously. "We can send another messenger to Queen Melisande, you know."

"But none with equal status, who cannot be dismissed," Eleanor said. "And I am determined to live."

"You'd better," Raymond said, in the half serious, half joking manner she remembered so well. "Or else I shall compose the most dreadful mourning dirges about you."

Eleanor sailed from Antioch to Jaffa, the bad tempered Thierry Galeran at her side. It wasn't until she sat in a litter he'd organized and he was riding at her side that he spoke about more than bare essentials with her. 

"Do not believe a pilgrimage to Jerusalem will absolve you from incest," he said. She could hardly believe what she was hearing.

"When I saw that man, I knew," he said. "That was why you have taken the cross. Not to join our poor King in God's enterprise, but to whore with your own kin." 

That did it. She finally lost her temper with him. Using something Louis had once told her in confidence to explain why Thierry Galeran was so morose, she said, tone sharp and cold: "Sir Knight, the fact that the infidels took away your manhood may have ensured you think of little but the joys of the flesh you can no longer share, and assume that so does everyone else. But be assured that the rest of us are quite capable of loving a dear relation without feeling the urge to mate with them." Face white, he stared at her, silenced. She refused to feel sorry for him. 

Queen Melisande turned out to be a formidable woman indeed. She'd been crowned co-regent with her father, had made her husband, who'd expected to rule in her stead after her father's death, acknowledge her authority, and currently was ignoring the fact that her son Baldwin, with whom she'd been also crowned following her husband's death, had reached his majority. 

And why not? Eleanor had thought when first hearing of this. If Melisande had been a man, Baldwin would have been expected to wait until his parent's demise to take power from him. Eleanor had been named as her father's successor just as Melisande had been named by the late King of Jerusalem, but Eleanor had never had the chance to rule Aquitaine on her own, due to her early marriage. A part of her was both envious and full of admiration for Melisande. But she wanted something from her, so it wouldn't do to show this too openly. 

"My condolences on the death of your husband," Queen Melisande said coolly when receiving Eleanor in the Tower of David, the Jerusalem Citadel near the Jaffa Gate, where she resided. She did not rise to greet Eleanor. While they both were Queens, the Kingdom of Jerusalem was the most holy realm there could be in all of Christendom, and thus a Queen of Jerusalem took precedence over a Queen of France. "His help would have been invaluable for our lost Edessa."

" _My_ help can still be yours," Eleanor replied pointedly. Some amusement showed in Melisande's face, and she folded her arms. "If your troops join ours and those of Antioch, Edessa will be won back", Eleanor continued. 

"A worthy goal. Unfortunately, my son has taken it into his sixteen-years-old head that it will be reached through an attack on Damascus, and I refuse to commit troops to such a folly. We have a peace treaty with Damascus. If we make them our enemy and then fail to conquer them, we'll have a far larger threat to the Holy City than Edessa ever could be." 

"Agreed," Eleanor said without hesitation. "Which is why the King my brother-in-law and Prince Raymond _won't_ attack Damascus. They'll attack Aleppo instead."

For the first time, Melisande looked impressed. She rose, and made a few steps towards Eleanor. Aleppo was located right at the border of the principality of Antioch and would be the perfect launching point for an attack on the County of Edessa. It also was far smaller than Damascus. 

"You can guarantee your brother-in-law and uncle will do this?"

"If you and your son will bring your troops to join them," Eleanor said firmly. 

Melisande clicked her fingers, and her musicians, who had fallen silent when Eleanor entered the room, started to play again. With a low voice, Melisande said to Eleanor: "I grew up in Edessa and would give much to see it in Christian hands again. But not at the cost of a war with Damascus. If we are to commit our troops, I need a guarantee there will be no change of the attack goal once the soldiers are marching. Unfortunately, the King might insist on marching with them, and once he is out of my sight, it would be just like him to give such an order."

Eleanor thought of pointing to her Uncle Raymond's determination, but young Baldwin outranked Raymond. He also outranked Robert, at least here in the Holy Land. 

"What if there was a good reason for him to stay in Jerusalem?" she asked slowly, as the idea which had been hovering in the back of her mind, half formed, ever since getting on the ship in Antioch at least presented itself clearly. 

"It would need to be a very good reason," Melisande replied, but in the way she regarded Eleanor, looked her up and down, Eleanor could see Melisande already knew what she was going to say. 

"What better reason than marriage?" Eleanor said blandly. 

If she returned to France a widow, she would have to marry again. No doubt Abbot Suger would feel himself entitled to seek a husband for her, a nobleman to his taste, which meant he wouldn't be to hers, with absolute loyalty to the French throne and no love for Aquitaine. Or, even worse, he'd tell Robert to send her to a nunnery, marry off Marie to a puppet of his and let him rule Aquitaine in Marie's name. 

But nobody, absolutely nobody, could command the Queen of Jerusalem, Eleanor thought, returned Melisande's gaze, and refused to look down first. She was not just _a_ Queen. She was _the_ Queen.  
Now that was a goal worth striving for. 

"What better reason?" Melisande said at last, and then, ever so slightly, she inclined her head, and took Eleanor's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Point of departure: Louis VII. dies at the battle of Laodicea. Which was a surprise ambush that caught the French army, en route from Constantinople to Antioch, unaware, but in reality Louis survived, though his marriage to Eleanor started to fall apart soon after, partly due to their massive disagreement over whether to attack Damascus or Aleppo (in order to reconquer Edessa). Eleanor and Melisande supported Raymond's plan to attack Aleppo for the same reason as given in the story, Louis, Konrad and Baldwin went for Damascus instead and not only failed to conquer it but turned it into an ally for Nur-ed-din.


	4. France

After Louis had refused to come to the aid of Edessa, insisting on attacking Damascus instead, and had allowed Thierry Galeran to take Eleanor from Antioch by force, Eleanor knew their marriage was doomed. Not least because her uncle Raymond, fighting alone, had died, and she wouldn't forgive Louis for this. But on their way back to France, no less a person than the Pope made an effort reconcile the King and Queen of France, going as far as tucking them into bed together at Tusculum. When Eleanor grew pregnant again, Louis was at last convinced their marriage was God's will after all, and they would be happy again. By contrast, Eleanor hoped it would be a girl. Then Louis would be willing to let her go. A pretext to annul their marriage could easily be found; they were related in the fourth degree. 

It wasn't a girl. It was a boy. France had an heir at last, and Louis was on his knees day and night in ecstatic prayers of gratitude. Previously, he had intended to name a son after his dead older brother, Philippe, but now he named the boy Raymond, a clumsy, well-intentioned way to reassure Eleanor of his remorse. She didn't know whether she was touched despite herself or angry in a resigned way. 

Eleanor was a realist. A son meant that her marriage would never be dissolved now, and it meant her own status was no longer that of a failed Queen, but of a Queen who had fulfilled what everyone assumed was a Queen's most important function: providing the King with a male heir. 

If Eleanor thought a Queen could be more than that, she at least now had safer ground from which to carry out that conviction. Abbot Suger, seeing the succession assured, allowed God to take him from this world, and her other clerical enemy, the sainted Abbot Bernard, continued to call her frivolous and a daughter of Eve but no longer urged Louis to petition the Pope for an annulment. "Sometimes, even the unworthy become instruments of God," he said grimly. 

"I could not agree more, my lord abbot. Which is why I agree with the King that you should be the one to baptize my son," Eleanor returned sweetly. 

Soon, the good Abbot had someone else to fume about. Geoffrey of Anjou, estranged second husband to the lady Maude, had shocked everyone by actually making good on his promise to hold Normandy only until his son came of age. Now young Henry Fitz Empress was supposed to come to court to acknowledge Louis as his liege lord for the Duchy of Normandy, and be acknowledged as the rightful Duke in turn. Unfortunately, his father had also been busy feuding with one of Louis' vassals, Giraud Berlai, had indeed captured him, and the resulting dispute with the crown was the main reason why both father and son were expected in Paris, with Bernard offering to mediate between them and Louis. "The Angevins are the devil's spawn," he said, "but they should keep their warmongering ways in England, and not exert them in this blessed realm." 

Eleanor didn't have much interest in England, which had been torn apart these last two decades by constant warfare between Maude and Stephen, with little prospect of a different future unless Henry Fitz Empress managed to succeed where his mother had failed. But she immediately sympathized with anyone called "the devil's spawn" by Bernard, and so she was curious enough to be present when Geoffrey of Anjou scandalized her husband by bringing Giraud Berlai to court in chains and mocking Bernard who promptly prophesied Geoffrey's impending doom. 

She felt entertained but didn't care otherwise, one way or the other, until Geoffrey had stomped off and the young man in his shadow, who had to be his and the Lady Maude's son, Henry, stepped forward to bid Louis and the outraged Bernard farewell, with flawless courtesy. 

It wasn't his looks, which were average; as opposed to his father, who was nicknamed Geoffrey Le Bel for his handsomeness, Henry wasn't tall, had reddish unruly hair rather than Geoffrey's blond locks, and his clothes, while of fine quality, looked rumpled as if he hadn't paid much attention when he got dressed in the morning. But he looked at Eleanor as if the world were a joke they were both in on, smiled and crossed the hall to where she was standing, for she had not joined Louis at the dais but had preferred to observe the whole encounter from the shadows. 

"Madame," he said, took her hand and kissed it. "If you are not the Queen of France, by God, you ought to be." 

He had grey eyes, fearless and keen, and a low voice which resonated in her. 

"My lord duke," she returned, amused and impressed despite herself, and decided to tease him a little. "And if you are not yet the King of England," she added, soft enough so the rest of the court would not be able to hear, "by God, you will be." 

His smile deepened, and he bowed once more before leaving. The following day, he was back, though, having coaxed his father to return to the negotiations. There was more at stake than Geoffrey of Anjou's refusal to free Giraud Berlai, though; Louis refused to recognize Henry as Duke of Normandy unless Henry conceded the county of the Vexin to him.

"Madame," Henry said while Geoffrey, Bernard and Louis were involved in yet another round of exchanging barbed comments, "surely you could persuade your husband to see reason. The Vexin _is_ a part of the old duchy."

If he thought he could charm her into foolishness, he had another think coming.

"It's also only a day's march from Paris," Eleanor returned. "And if your struggle with King Stephen gets resolved, you might wish to turn those war experienced troops elsewhere."

She cared about this, she discovered, more than she used to. Not least because little Raymond would one day have to cope with having a vassal who was simultaneously a fellow King. Together, Henry and his father already held Normandy, Maine and Anjou, which made him as powerful as the Dukes of Aquitaine used to be in her father's day. Add anything more, and who knew whether he'd ever submit to another monarch again? 

"I suppose swearing that I would never wouldn't reassure you," Henry murmured. 

"Only of your lying skills," Eleanor said. "Which are an important trait for a future sovereign to have, but less than confidence inspiring from a vassal." 

"Come now, Madame. If you were in my place, would you concede the Vexin - for nothing? After all, while getting your husband's blessing is nice, it's not necessary. Normandy already is mine."

It occurred to her that if Raymond had been a girl, and her marriage ready to be annulled, she would be on Henry's side in this. More than that, she might even have considered him as a second husband, for he was right: he already ruled over a good part of France, and he'd have ensured Aquitaine's independence from it as well without Louis being able to do much about it, had she chosen to marry him. 

But with things being as they were, it looked like he could be nothing but a future enemy. Unless...

"A few years ago," Eleanor said thoughtfully, "before the King and I took the cross, your father briefly opened negotiations to marry you to our daughter Marie. Then Edessa fell, the crusade began, and it came to nothing."  


He understood her at once. To be the son-in-law of the King of France was no little honour. More importantly, it would commit Louis to support Henry's claim to the English throne above that of any other candidates. And right now, having been on Crusade and with a living saint at his advisor, Louis has the Pope's ear. Stephen, one heard, was currently trying to get his son Eustace crowned as his fellow King and successor. If the Pope deemed Eustace's claim as invalid, this would be impossible. 

"It would certainly be worth the Vexin to become your son-in-law," he said. "Except for one thing."

She was very conscious of how close they were standing. True, her husband, his father, and the good Abbot were only an earshot away, pacing around the room together in exasperation. But it had rained only recently, while he and his father had been on their way to the Abbey St. Denis where the negotiations took place, and she could see his damp clothes clinging to his chest and legs, leaving not much to the imagination. 

"Do you _truly_ think of me as good husband material?" he asked, half flirting, half challenging, all teasing. He was a decade younger than she was, but he had the confidence to carry it off. Yes, he definitely _would_ be King of England one day. Eleanor, growing up among troubadours, was an accomplished flirt herself, and she told herself she was simply enjoying practicing the art again, which she of course would cease to do if they truly came to an agreement that would change him from a potential enemy of her son to an ally through her daughter. 

"Come now, my lord duke," she said, parodying his earlier phrase. "If you were in my place, would you concede laurels - for a future not yet delivered? After all, while getting you as family member would be nice, it's not necessary. Trouble already is ours." 

He threw his head back and laughed. Whole heartedly, and it was enough to make Louis look at them in confusion, while Geoffrey of Anjou was curious and Bernard, as usual, outraged. 

"The Queen has convinced me to make peace," Henry said out loud. "As long as you do think of me," he added, for her ears alone, "trouble is certainly yours."

The next day, Geoffrey of Anjou delivered Giraud Berlai while Henry conceded the Vexin in its entirety while paying homage to Louis for the Duchy of Normandy. In return, he and Marie plighted their troth in front of Abbot Bernard, which made the engagement binding unless, Eleanor thought cynically, a future Pope saw reason for an annulment. Marie, who was seven years old, was very excited, but not upset, since she would not have to join her future husband for a while. That would be dependent on his claiming the English throne. 

"And I thought you had such confidence in me," Henry said to Eleanor when this part of the treaty was read out. "I can't help but notice that I'm the one delivering all the goods here, while you, my lady, only hold out promises."

This certainly was what had helped her to convince Louis, who was uneasy of entrusting his daughter to a spawn of Satan, which the Angevins proudly declared they were. He did want peace, though, and was ready to admit they could hardly do better for Marie unless the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire made an offer, which he wasn't about to. 

"Are you saying my promises aren't trustworthy, my lord duke?" 

"Well," he said, dropping the jesting tone abruptly, "that's what we're about to find out, you and I." 

 

Henry's father Geoffrey died within the same year, leaving people more impressed than ever at Bernard of Clairvaux' powers of prophecy. Eleanor, on the other hand, felt both pleased and disturbed at her own power of foresight, as Henry managed to become uncontested King of England within two years. 

They'd been busy years for her as well. Now that she had finally given him an heir, Louis did not object any longer to her spending part of the year in Aquitaine. It wasn't solely her native soil she'd missed, her own language, the sun, and the chance to preside over a court which valued the poetry of troubadours more than it did the latest sermon by Abbot Bernard. No, it was the person she could be in Aquitaine: their liege lady, not Louis' too long barren Queen. Dispensing with the need to flatter Louis into making the decisions she wanted for Aquitaine, being able to make those decisions directly, felt like breathing clear air after being surrounded by fog for far too long. She even relished sparring with her oldest foes, the St. Gilles family which dared to claim Toulouse when it had been Eleanor's heritage through her grandmother. 

If it hadn't been for her son, she would not have felt the need to return to Paris at all. Marie was still with her, and she did not miss Louis. It was easier to tell herself she'd forgiven him for her uncle's death when he wasn't there, that she felt, if not love, then at least the protective fondness he'd once evoked in her when they'd been young newly weds. Moreover, she did not have to put up with his irregular guilty fumblings in the dark and his tormented prayers afterwards. 

Louis had to be the only man in Christendom who managed to make his wife feel like a whore without involving sin in any way. Or, for that matter, pleasure. 

But her son was in Paris, guarded day and night as the precious jewel he was. And now that the Normans and Angevins ruling England weren't fighting each other anymore, it was more urgent than ever to ensure that France would remain united. If the French Queen lived her entire life away from court, she would have become irrelevant to the ruling of country, or a magnet for malcontents. No, she had to be present at Louis' side at least some of the time. 

She was in Poitiers, though, when a message reached her in which the new King of England declared his intention to claim his bride and renegotiate her dowry. Which wasn't a surprise to Eleanor. Of course he'd want the Vexin back, now that he no longer needed French good will, and having inherited a bled out country in dire need of money, he would certainly love to claim at least part of Aquitaine as Marie's marriage portion. 

What did surprise and anger her was that she hadn't been able to forget the impact his physical presence had had on her during their meetings in Paris, or that it would still have the same impact when she saw him again, at the Abbey Fontevrault which she'd suggested as a neutral meeting place. It was both ridiculous and unworthy to lust after a man who could, at best, be a future son-in-law and at worst a foe. Even worse, if he ever suspected she felt that way, she'd have handed him a dangerous weapon. 

Unless she had a similar impact on him, but considering this wasn't helpful. She had to handle this particular flame as all fire should be handled; useful and essential for survival when managed with care, destructive if it ever got out of hand. 

Eleanor had planned to arrive first, not least because she wanted to be certain that, all promises of alliance and good will notwithstanding, there were no Angevin troops in the vicinity. This _was_ Anjou, after all, his territory, and while she wanted to demonstrate good faith as well as a cool head by suggesting such a meeting place instead of insisting on him coming to Aquitaine, she intended to do so with open eyes. But despite his messenger having come from across the channel, Henry and his entourage - which was fitting for a King, but not large enough to constitute a threat - were already at Fontevrault, where his aunt was the Abbess. Either he had misled her with the message, or he was truly as fast a traveller as rumour would have it. The ability to move an army incredibly quickly supposedly had been no small reason as to why Stephen had given up and accepted Henry as an heir. Well, if she couldn't arrive discreetly and scout out territory before hand, she would arrive in splendour and pretend this had always been her intention. 

"Madame," he said, when the last musician had stopped his lute, "you have certainly enlivened everyone's austere existence around here. I'm overwhelmed myself. But I can't help noticing that my bride is not at your side. You crush me." 

"I doubt that," she replied. "Unless you took me for enough of a fool to bring her with me and tempt you to act, shall we say, hastily. Which would crush _me_ , since I hoped for your good opinion."  
"Oh, I'd never take you for a fool. Hoping for temptation on your part, on the other hand..."

It was all too easy to fall into banter. Ensuring that Raymond wouldn't have to fight this man once he's grown up, Eleanor reminded herself. That was the goal. 

Then again, there was no reason that said she couldn't enjoy herself while reaching it. 

They were strolling through the Abbey's cloister yard together, discreetly followed by one of their retainers each, and exchanged pleasantries until he gave in and was the first to address the core of their problem. 

"Never let it be said I'm inconsiderate of my loving bride-to-be's youth and her parents' desire to keep her a bit longer. But I doubt her dowry needs to be clung to by France quite as fervently. And doesn't the future Queen of England deserve a better dowry than the one promised to the future Duchess of Normandy?"

"Alas, the position of the Vexin hasn't changed", Eleanor retorted. "It's still only a day's march from Paris, and so newly returned to France's loving care that we're certainly not ready to give it up all over again. But I do see your point."

He regarded her pensively. His eyes resembled smoke, she thought, and wondered what her poets would do with him if she ever did invite him into Aquitaine. "Do you?" he asked. 

"Let us be frank," she said. "If we should disavow the plight troth, you'd have a reason for war. If we do hand Marie over, you'll be on our doorstep claiming part of our territory in her name before Abbot Bernard can finish a rosary. And while you don't need the Vexin to rebuild your own kingdom, you do need something." 

She did not add what had occurred to her only last year, when her son's slight cough had led to horrified panic gripping the entire court at Paris. So many children died early in their childhood. And if this should happen to Raymond, then whoever was married to Marie had as good a claim to the French throne after Louis' death as Robert the dull and harmless did, especially if that someone should be a good battle commander. Robert so far hadn't proven himself to be one, no more than Louis himself had. 

Considering the possibility that Henry might gamble on her son dying an early childhood death was a great help in cooling the sense of sparks flying she had whenever they talked. 

"And are you prepared to give me... something?"

"Yes," Eleanor said. It wouldn't do simply to break a promise. Any fool could start a war. Starting one with doubts about the capability of your own commanders would be even worse than foolishness, it would be desperation. No, the true challenge was to figure out a way to keep this man either as an ally or at least avoid making him into an enemy. She had spent the last two years pondering over a way, and at last she believed she had found it. "But not land. Of territories, you have quite enough for now, and among them an entire island in need of recovery. No, your Grace, what you need is money, and good trade. Today, English merchants cannot compete with any others because of all the customs paid on the rare occasion when they do have something to trade to France. My husband and I would offer you, as our friend and future son, the freedom of customs for your subjects in any territory ruled by France. What's more, we'll swear our merchants to buy from your farmers for the next three years. Tell me this will not help your realm right now far more than any campaign for new lands would, and I'll know you've grown a lesser liar since last we met." 

He didn't say anything for a while. Then he nodded, took her hand, and, with a courtly flourish, kissed it again the way he had when they first met. 

"I'm an excellent liar who would never tell you such a thing," he murmured. "But I will tell you that if your daughter resembled you, I would marry her right now without Aquitaine, the Vexin or any other dowry."

She quickly turned her hand so that her fingertips touched his mouth. 

"Liar," she said, and for a moment, there were no other people in the world. "But excellent indeed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Point of departure: Eleanor's second child by Louis is a son, not a daughter. In reality, she did become pregnant after the Pope-arranged reconciliation with Louis at Tusculum, but the fact that the result was another daughter probably would have sealed the fate of her first marriage even if Henry hadn't shown up a short time after. Given the speed with which her second marriage happened, though, novelists and historians alike find it irresistable to speculate that Eleanor and Henry must have come to some type of understanding during his visit to Paris. Louis was furious and went to war, only to be humiliatingly beaten by his former wife's new husband within weeks.


	5. Aquitaine

"But what does happen now?" Eleanor's oldest son said unhappily. "What do we do with him?"

Rarely had a victor looked that doubting and defeated. But then, Hal hadn't been the one to capture his father. This incredible feat had been accomplished by Hal's loyal knight, William Marshal, and it had changed everything. Eleanor didn't like to admit it, even to herself, but the rebellion she, her sons and their allies had been leading against Henry had been on the verge of collapsing. It hadn't been for lack of planning; she had made sure there would be simultaneous assaults from all sides, with the Counts of Flanders and Boulogne invading Normandy from the east, Louis and Hal from the south, and the Bretons from the West, while the King of Scots attacked England from the North. But Henry still was the most able commander their era had seen, while Louis hadn't improved since the time of their marriage, and Hal's love of tournaments did not translate into any gifts on the battlefield. As for the Counts of Flanders and Boulogne, they were soon defeated. Her son Richard, by contrast, already showed strategic talent, but Richard was all of sixteen, and she couldn't, wouldn't expect him to defeat his father single-handedly when so many older, seasoned men were failing to accomplish that feat. 

But then the miracle had happened. William Marshal had managed to unhorse Henry in battle and, realising what this could mean, had taken him from the field before any of Henry's retainers noticed what was happening. And he had brought him not to Hal and Louis; he's brought him to Eleanor, whom he venerated ever since she had paid his ransom when he'd been a young, penniless knight, and since she'd made him her oldest son's companion. Hal followed, of course; so, once word had reached them, would Richard and Geoffrey. The only one of Eleanor's sons not currently rebelling against his father was John, after all, and he was still a child.  


"Surely, this means peace. Your lord father will have to concede Normandy or England to you now, my liege," William Marshal said. Hal looked unconvinced.

"He never will," he muttered. "Never. And as soon as he gets free, he'll be coming after me again, you mark my word."

"Then he must remain captive," Eleanor said before her son could demonstrate his talent for indecision any further. She hadn't seen Henry yet. Ensuring that Hal didn't do anything foolish had been a priority.  
"What if the barons who didn't join us won't accept me even now? What if they insist he be freed?"

"You are their anointed King, and the only one in power. They will accept you," Eleanor said firmly, though she knew very well it wasn't that easy. It never was. But it had been necessary. 

When she had married Henry, only a few months after their first meeting in Paris and after getting her first marriage annulled, it had been the scandal of Christendom, but she'd never doubted she'd made the right decision. The eight children she bore during the next decade had made it very clear indeed whose fault her previous supposed lack of fertility had been, heirs to the Empire she and Henry had built together. But by the time the first of them reached adulthood, the fire that had given them life had consumed both their parents. It was not simply one reason that had turned her and Henry into enemies. It had happened gradually, but now here they were, in the middle of a war that could only have ended with one of them utterly defeated. Of course she was glad it had not been her. She had a very good idea what Henry would have done to her if she'd fallen into his power.  


Why, then, did she feel as hollow inside as Hal had looked? 

Eleanor rose and went to the chambers given to the King. The old King, as he was commonly called, ever since he had Hal crowned, who was thereafter referred to as the young King. That this honour had come without any actual power or any responsibility whatsoever had been Hal's reason to rebel, after waiting two years in vain for Henry to listen to any of his petitions. Eleanor's first husband, Louis, still King of a much diminished France, had been only too glad to encourage Hal. As Louis saw it, Hal and his brothers were the sons Eleanor should have born _him_. He'd even gone as far as declaring Hal was now the only King of England France would recognize. 

That wouldn't have lasted long, Eleanor thought, if Henry had won the war. She had no illusions in this regard. Louis had also refused to recognize her second marriage, until he did. Louis could accept realities, if they intruded on his view of how the world should be hard enough. Now, of course, he'd see Henry's captivity as the Almighty's judgment that he, Louis, had been right, and they'd have his backing a while longer. Which was important since the Pope had already sent her two furious letters about the unnaturalness of a wife rebelling against her lord and husband, a mother encouraging her sons to rise against their father. She'd been tempted to reply that Henry had done the encouraging all on his own, with his infernal high handedness and inability to see that you couldn't continue to rule without sharing any power if you had adult sons who'd been raised to rule as well. But in the end, she'd sent no reply at all. She'd been too busy trying not to lose her war against Henry. 

There were guards posted in front of his room, no Angevins or Normans, she saw with relief, but Poitevins from her own realm. But Henry had been accorded the respect due to an anointed King and been given the same chambers he always occupied at her castle in Poitiers. Or had, when things still had been good between them. 

When he hadn't been flaunting his concubine in public. When he had listened to her. When he hadn't demanded that her vassals in Aquitaine swore themselves to him, and only him, when she was their liege lady. When he hadn't favored the usurper Count of Toulouse, her old enemy, of all the people. When he hadn't given Aquitaine territory which belonged to her and Richard as her heir to John instead, which in effect meant to himself, since John was a child. 

When they'd been happy. 

"I'll say this for you," he said when she entered the room, "even your dungeons are lavish. Come to admire your handiwork?" 

The words were jesting. The tone was cold as ice. They were long past pretending this was just another disagreement that could be resolved in laughter and sex. 

"You're the only one giving me the credit here," she replied. "There's general admiration for William Marshal, of course. But I've also heard it said we have to thank Thomas Becket for it. Killing a saint seems to have put you at the displeasure of the Almighty." 

If she didn't know him so well, she wouldn't have noticed the almost imperceptible flinch. So he still felt guilty about Becket. In truth, Eleanor thought that the sainthood already conferred by the Pope on a man not yet three years dead was undeserved. If anyone had eagerly sought martyrdom at the expense of friendship, it had been Thomas Becket, and in his way, the man had been as proud as Lucifer. But wishing him dead in front of eagerly listening knights had been worse than a crime, it had been a dreadful mistake, and Henry was still paying for it. 

"Oh, I'm all for giving credit where due," Henry said. "You destroyed this family. And now this realm. Satisfied?"

He always could get under her skin more than any other person, male or female. She'd been resolved not to let him goad her into justifying herself, but before she could stop herself, she'd heatedly returned: "Oh, don't diminish yourself. You started this. And you'll find that family and realm will heal quite well without you."

He snorted. "You don't seriously believe that. Can you see Hal bringing all those greedy cutthroats who joined this rebellion to heel? _Hal_?"

"He needs a chance to prove himself and grow into a man. Which you've never given him." 

In truth, Eleanor was uneasy about Hal's capacity for rulership by now. He was in many ways a son to be proud of: charming, generous to fault, accomplished at all the courtly arts, the winner of many tournaments. He was a good husband to his wife Marguerite. But he was easily swayed by whichever of his companions held his ear at any given moment, and far too impulsive. He had nearly ruined the rebellion before it could start by fleeing from his father's court before everyone else was ready, simply because he couldn't bear the tension between himself and Henry any longer. And now, in the hour of victory, when it mattered so much that he showed everyone he would be a worthy ruler, he was indecisive again. 

But he had been crowned, and that could not be undone. It had been the biggest advantage the rebellion had had; that Hal was already an anointed King, and thus no one following him was acting against God's laws, even if striking out against his father. 

"Because he isn't ready!"

"And how was he to prove his readiness if you've never given him any responsibility? Henry, your own father had given you Normandy when you were Hal's age. For God's sake, you were campaigning against Stephen when you were Richard's age! Can't you see what hypocrisy it was to deny our sons the same chance, even now?"

He'd held a cup when she entered the room, but now he flung it away and rose. She didn't move. 

"I can see that you swore an oath to love, honour and obey, Eleanor. I can see that I trusted you, and you broke all three. And don't tell me you did it for the boys. You were already starting to spin your web when the oil of the coronation wasn't even dry on Hal's forehead!" 

"You want to talk about broken marriage vows," she said flatly. "Now I truly believe a miracle has been accomplished."

It wasn't that she'd ever been under the illusion that he was faithful to her while they were apart. But that hadn't meant anything. Rosamond Clifford, now; that had been a true betrayal. She hadn't been a nameless stranger spending a diverting hour in the royal bed. Henry hadn't grown tired of her, he'd kept her with him for months turning years. He had given her Woodstock, one of Eleanor's favourite palaces. It had hurt her in a way few things had, and she had felt every one of her forty two years, pregnant with John, while Rosamond was a nineteen-years-young dazzling beauty radiating adoration at her royal lover. 

Eleanor had left England then, and hadn't returned there ever since. 

"I never treated you as less than my queen," he said, avoiding the implicit accusation as smoothly as a clerk discussing law, turning it against her. "Not an aggrieved fishwife ready to hack her husband's boat into pieces simply because he's swivving with the tavern maid next door." 

A part of her, even now, registered the artful defense, the way he'd managed to make her look petty about something he'd done, and thought he'd always been the most intelligent man she'd ever met, challenging her like no one else had done, or ever would. The rest felt the indignation that had been building up in her through their conversation leave, like a hot wind, with only ashes remaining. What was the point of it, really? What could they say to each other now that was worth hearing? 

"Oh, Henry, you're good in bed, but not that good. It wasn't your Welsh sheep that made me realize someone really needed to take that boat away from you. It was what you did to Aquitaine." 

For a moment, he looked sincerely baffled. Then he shook his head. 

"And now, of course, Hal will restore Aquitaine to its old privileges and leave it, intact, to Richard?"

"Yes," she said, cautious, for she could sense he was getting ready to strike again.

"Because our sons are such good friends."

"They were good allies," she stalled, because he had made a valid point, God curse him. There was not much love lost between her sons. She'd hoped they would outgrow it, the way one does childhood rivalries, but so far, there was no sign of it, though they had worked together in the rebellion.

"Against me. But I am no longer a threat. Tell me, Eleanor, now that they've learned they need not regard the loyalties of family as binding, why shouldn't they turn on each other? Why shouldn't Richard want what Hal has?"  
"Because Richard loves Aquitaine," she shot back. "Not England."

This she knew to be true. A mother should not have favourites, but she'd always been that crucial bit closer to Richard, who'd been raised as her heir, not Henry's, loved her duchy the way she did, and had never shown much interest in the island across the sea. 

"And Geoffrey? Why shouldn't he want both? After all, you taught him that princes are disposable."

He had just outlined very real dangers, but she'd never admit this to him. 

"I should hope," she said, "that the teachers we gave him taught him enough Latin to recognize _divide et impera_. Which is what you're trying to do now. Divide and rule. You're hoping to regain your freedom and power by turning them against each other and me against them, Henry. A bit too obvious. You're getting rusty."

He shrugged. "I'm getting old. So it's not going to be murder quite yet, is it?"

She looked at him searchingly. Was he trying to shock her?

"You wouldn't have killed me," she said as blandly as she could. 

"I would have made damn sure you'd never be free again. And frankly, I doubt that many people would have tried to ride to your rescue. You've made too many enemies, dear heart, and I'd have put the fear of God in all my subjects. But Hal? I'd be very surprised if he wasn't already fretting at the prospect of someone feeling badly enough for their rightful king to help me escape. Or imagining the first time he says no instead of yes to a baron, with that baron immediately trying an uprising of his own with the ostensible purpose of restoring me." 

"Ah, but you won't be Hal's prisoner," she said. "You're going to be mine."

With that, she left, not for her own rooms, but for the battlements. She needed to breathe in the warm spring air while she allowed herself to acknowledge how truly shaken she was.

There was no useful precedent of how to handle a defeated king who was also your own family. Well, there were Stephen and Maude, both of whom had at different points of their long struggle been in each other's power. They hadn't killed each other, against cynical expectations. But given the devastation their struggle left behind, theirs was hardly an encouraging example.

Patricide was a horrible sin. It would destroy her sons, would certainly destroy most of their support. And, Eleanor finally admitted to herself, she wasn't ready to live in a world without Henry in it. Maybe she would be, one day. But not yet. 

She'd have to hold him as far from his power bases as possible, though. Undoubtedly, he'd have held her in England, where he could count on his subjects seeing her as a stranger, an unnatural wife and a rebellious queen. She would keep him in Aquitaine, deep in the south, where he wasn't a wronged king but a tyrant who'd alienated nearly all of the noble families and of the towns by ignoring traditional Aquitaine rights, and a stranger. It would still be a risk. Underestimating Henry usually got people defeated and killed. Undoubtedly, he would try to charm whomever she commanded to guard him into switching sides or at least be lenient enough to allow him to escape. Conversely, there was the very real possibility that some of Hal's more fervent young friends thought it would be a brilliant idea to do just as those knights slaying Becket had done, carry out what they felt was the wish of the king. The security would have to be strong in both directions. 

But she could do it. She _would_ do it. Keep him prisoner, allow no one to murder him, and somehow keep their sons from killing each other. 

It truly was the challenge of a life time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Point of departure: Henry, not Eleanor, gets captured during the war of 1173. This was actually the only way I could find for Eleanor to win this war, because in retrospect, the rebellion was probably doomed through the fact that two key participants - Henry the Young King (Hal) and Louis VII. - were never able to match Henry II. as strategists and in battle, and the son who by his later record could have done, Richard, was simply too young yet. Also, Hal by bolting early from his father's court gave the whole thing away far too soon, but given Hal's life in general, writing him as a more cautious, self-disciplined man would have been massively ooc. His friend William Marshal, though, was the most famous knight of the age, so letting him defeat Henry in personal combat seemed possible. 
> 
> Having been captured, Eleanor was held captive by her husband for 15 years until Henry's death, mostly, but not exclusively in Salisbury. She participated in various court events during those years, though, which provided inspiration for James Goldman's play (and the movie based on it), "The Lion in Winter".


End file.
